


Raise Me a Dais

by penumbralsock



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Inexperience, Initially Reluctant Rapist, M/M, Older Teens of Ambiguous Age, Public Rape, Punishment, Sadism, Slave Training, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:59:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24953419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbralsock/pseuds/penumbralsock
Summary: Here he is, the boy of Will’s hundred wistful daydreams, object of a thousand stolen glances. Kneeling beside his bed, staring up at him.The only things breaking up the fantasy are the ball gag in Ander’s mouth and the murder in his eyes.
Relationships: New Owner/Long Time Crush Recently Sentenced To Slavery
Comments: 27
Kudos: 120
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Raise Me a Dais

**Author's Note:**

  * For [citrinesunset](https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrinesunset/gifts).



“And so the very next year, Eugeneia Aster became the twelfth and final signatory to the Compact of Flowers.”

Across the room, Ander Calanthe appears less interested in the Compact of Flowers than in leaning over to peer down Sarah Minley’s shirt. Sarah giggles and pretends to push him away.

Will scratches “Aster” and the date beneath “Jonquil” in his notebook and goes back to shading underneath the curve of Ander’s jaw. Professor Cortez drones on about constitutional conventions and ratification requirements, pacing up and down the length of the classroom.

“Pay attention, Will,” Mel hisses as their teacher hits the apogee of her circuit. 

“I am! Look, notes,” Will answers, tilting his notebook to show off the list of dutifully copied names and dates. It had seemed like such a coup, talking his parents into hiring Mel when they’d insisted he needed a tutor to bring his marks up in civics.

“Great. So as long as all Cortez wants to know on Monday’s test is the names of the Twelve, when they signed the Compact, and the length of Ander’s eyelashes, you’re all set.”

Best friend or not, Mel has already shown that she isn’t above threatening to rat Will out to his parents for his terrible study habits, and Mel doesn’t make idle threats. Will learned that in preschool, where he acquired the tiny tooth-shaped scar on his left thumb. It’s still totally visible, whatever Mel says.

And so Will reluctantly abandons his sketch and begins to transcribe Professor Cortez’s lecture on the limits of power. His grades aren’t even bad. He’s in the top decile of his class in every subject but civics! It’s just that there’s nothing interesting about the twelve families who rule the city.

“Mr. Calanthe,” Professor Cortez says, rounding on Ander as he subsides back into his seat. Well, okay, almost nothing. “Perhaps you can tell me what it is that I just said.”

“Of course, Professor,” he says. “About, uh, the government?”

“The limits of the Archon’s power.”

“Right! Well, the Archon is, um, very powerful. But his power is also limited.”

“Limited how, specifically?”

Ander cocks his head and frowns in concentration. “Well, I’m pretty sure he can’t read minds, because otherwise I’d be grounded pretty much all the time.” On either side of him, Sarah Minley and Nico Jonquil snicker.

“Thank you, Mr. Calanthe,” their teacher says dryly. “Ms. Hepatica?”

“The Archon’s power is limited by the principle of annuity,” Mel answers promptly. “He has to stand for election every year, and the threshold for victory rises each time he’s successful.”

“Very good, Melanippe. Theoretically, if an Archon managed to hold onto office for twenty-five years, he, or she, could be defeated by a single opposing vote. In practice, this means that the Archonship tends to pass between a coalition of like-minded families. 

“Next week,” Professor Cortez continues, “you will each give a presentation to the class on one such alliance in the city’s political history. You may choose your groups,” she says over the groans of her pupils, “but you, Mr. Calanthe, will join Ms. Hepatica and Mr. Black.”

“But Professor! I was going to work with–“

“You and Ms. Minley will survive a temporary separation, Mr. Calanthe. You may even find it does your education some good.”

“Yes, Professor.” Ander slowly drags his chair back to Will and Mel’s desks, scraping it noisily across the parquet floor as though it weighs at least eight stone. Grinning, he spins the chair around and straddles it to face them, folding his arms across its back. “You’ve probably got it all under control, huh, Mel? Maybe I can be your visual aid while you present.”

“I think we should each take our own section of the presentation,” Mel says, “which you will absolutely not fuck up.” She glances sidelong at Will. “I’m sure Will would be happy to lend you his notes.”

Will flushes and hastily flips his notebook over, hiding the sketch. He needn’t have bothered, though, because Ander barely glances at him. The Didaskaleion is the only secondary school on the Heights, and to be here means that your family has power, money, or both. Mel’s family might not have the cash, but the name of Hepatica means more than wealth. No amount of money could make Ander Calanthe take more than cursory notice of a boy named William Black. Not unless he looked like Sarah Minley, anyway.

“Don’t bother,” Ander says breezily. “Sarah’s girl makes a copy of her notes for each of us.” He jerks his head toward the back of the room, where a mousy-haired, bespectacled girl in a slave’s dress – kind of like a short white slip – kneels on a mat among half a dozen others writing at lapdesks. The motion makes Ander’s hair fall into his eyes.

“Why don’t you have your own?” Mel asks. “I’m sure you can afford one.”

That’s good question, now Will thinks of it. Mel doesn’t need anyone’s help in school and her parents probably can’t afford a slave with the right pedigree to be allowed through the doors of the Didaskaleion, anyway. Most of the kids who can, though, do. From their parents’ perspective, it’s a good investment: buy a bright young thing to shadow your son or daughter through school from an early age, and you pretty much get a world-class education for your slave for free. For the student, it’s a chance to slack off a little. And maybe to blow off some steam with a study buddy: almost all the slaves kneeling at the back of the classroom are good-looking.

Will’s own parents have proposed buying a slave to help him in school more than once, and only relented in the face of his stubborn resistance. He isn’t sure why the idea makes him so uncomfortable, but it does. Hiring Mel as a tutor had been a compromise.

“I wish,” Ander says, raking back golden hair with his fingers. “My dad won’t let me bring any of ours.” He screws his face up into a scowl and takes on an exaggerated lecturing tone. “‘A man who lets a slave do his thinking for him is no better than a slave himself.’ But hey, Sarah’s girl – I think her name is Ellen? Eileen? – anyway, she gets the job done. She might be as smart you, Mel. Great tits, too.”

“She’s probably got plenty of reasons to stay motivated,” Will ventures. He’s seen bruises on the back of Daphne Senna’s boy the day after a test was handed back, even though everyone knows Daphne can’t be bothered to study. “Mel just gets things.”

Ander looks at Will the only way he ever has. Not with malice, exactly, but kind of like he’s surprised Will knows how to talk. Especially to him.

Will looks at Mel in a mute appeal for rescue, but she isn’t listening. Her eyes are fixed on the classroom door, where a uniformed man flanked by two Equals is speaking to Professor Cortez. The presence of the Equals is not particularly remarkable. The offspring of the city’s political elite attend the Didaskaleion, so it’s no surprise that the Council’s genetically modified guardians take an interest in their safety. Years ago, in a moment of particular foolhardiness, Will confided to Mel that he thought Ander must have been the product of gene-tampering. The Equals, for all their glassy-eyed placidity, are the only place Will has ever seen physical beauty like Ander’s, at least outside of vids of actors and celebrities that everyone knew knows are doctored – digitally or surgically – anyway. Mel pointed out that gene-tampering was illegal, a kid cooked up in a lab probably wouldn’t have needed braces, and Will was an idiot. Privately, Will still thinks it’s a possibility. What does the Chancellor care about illegal?

If the Equals aren’t out of place in the school, though, the man they accompany definitely is. He’s tall and greying and heavily built, with insignia of high constabular rank pinned to his collar. He appears to be engaged in a low-voiced argument with their teacher, and he keeps gesturing forcefully toward – Will?

“Mr. Calanthe,” Professor Cortez says. Apparently not. “This gentleman would like a word with you outside.”

Ander rises with a shrug. “If it’s not about coalition governments, he can have as many words as he likes. See you, Mel. Black.” He nods at Will. Will meets cornflower blue eyes for just a second, and his internal organs do their best to rearrange themselves.

“Don’t think this means you’re off the hook for our presentation,” Mel calls after Ander. “We can give him the electoral history,” she tells Will, pulling up the assignment parameters on her tablet.

“Oh my gods,” Will says.

“I know, but it’s mostly just summarizing names and dates. You can collate the coalition platforms, and I’ll do the analysis.”

“Ander said my name. Ander _knows_ my name. Oh my gods.”

“Ander has been in school with you since you were both six. Also, Professor Cortez said your name to him two minutes ago,” Mel observes heartlessly.

“Please don’t try to take this away from me. Besides, when has Ander ever listened to any of our professors?”

“You have a point. Tell you what: because I am an amazing friend, I’ll do the analysis and the collation, and you two can work on the history section of the presentation together.” She wiggles her eyebrows in what Will guesses is supposed to be a suggestive manner but is actually ridiculous. Will doesn’t care. 

“Seriously?” he says. “You’re the best.”

“Yeah, sure. Better be careful, though,” Mel adds, nodding to the paneled glass wall of the classroom, through which Ander can now be seen shouting and gesticulating wildly at the constable. “I wonder what that poor dolt said to bring all that on.”

Mel isn’t the only person to take notice of the pantomime drama unfolding silently out in the hallway. Half the class are now watching Ander and the dour-faced constable, assignments forgotten. The glass between them is soundproof, so they can’t hear what Ander is saying, but it suddenly strikes Will that the display is out of character. Ander can be cutting, and even petulant, Will is able to admit privately. But outright fury isn’t really in his makeup. What has the world ever given Ander Calanthe to be furious about?

And is that anger on Ander’s face? Or is it fear?

Without changing expression, the constable backhands Ander so hard he staggers into the wall of the classroom with a thud audible even through the soundproofing. A smear of blood stains the surface where Ander’s lip splits against the glass.

Will’s startled gasp is lost in Sarah Minley’s scream. Nico Jonquil is on his feet and halfway to the door before Professor Cortez is beside him, catching his arm. Their teacher must be stronger than she looks, to judge by Nico’s unsuccessful effort to shake free of her grip.

“Sit _down_ , Nicomachus,” she says.

“But, Professor–”

“There is nothing you can do that will not make matters worse.” 

“They shouldn’t, I mean, they wouldn’t, not if they knew who–”

“They know, Mr. Jonquil. We cannot interfere,” Professor Cortez says gently, drawing Nico back to his desk. He looks not so much shocked as disbelieving, as if an immutable law of the universe is bending before his eyes. Nobody hits Ander Calanthe.

The Equals have hold of Ander’s arms now and are frog-marching him around the corner and out of sight. 

Nobody does any work in civics. Or in any other class, for that matter. All the talk is rumor and speculation that seems to grow more improbable by the minute. Ander has been caught shoplifting and the Archon is making a public example of his own son. No, terrorists have struck the city and the Archon’s family members are being put under guard for their own protection. No, the Archon is plotting to eliminate the other Councilors and employs his own children as assassins. 

It’s on his way home that Will learns the truth, or at least the shape of it. Floating above the city in an aerial coach like a giant soap bubble of galvanic glass, he ignores the beauty of the city beneath him, its whitewashed walls against the backdrop of pale granite cliffs. White streets give way to the manicured green expanse of the Corporation’s campus, which yield in turn to the iridescent blue waves of the bay. All the while, Will combs through the news sites, calling up feed after feed until every inch of the sphere’s glassy surface flickers with color and light. 

At last, a flashing headline – Breaking News! – catches Will’s eye. He enlarges the feed just as first one, then two, then a dozen others light up on the periphery of his vision. A young reporter with wisps of red hair escaping a tight bun appears in front of pearly steps that vanish into a forest of tall columns. 

“I’m here at the Hall of the Councilors where Archon Philocrates Calanthe has just been escorted from the building under guard.” An image of the Archon pops up next to the reporter. If Will has ever thought Ander could have been carved from marble, his father wears the same face hewn from rough granite. Will can see the ghost of the same beauty he’s studied surreptitiously since childhood, but features that are striking in Ander have been somehow transformed on the Archon’s mask of a face into something flinty and severe. “The surprise expulsion follows an all-day session in which Councilors took the unusual step of closing their deliberations to members of the press. Sources close to multiple Councilors are now reporting that the Archon has been removed in a seven to four vote and will face unspecified criminal charges. Our panel has more.” The feed switches over to a table of talking heads arguing about constitutional contingencies and continuity of government provisions with an urgency that only Professor Cortez could find plausible. Frustrated, Will scans through half a dozen more of the feeds without learning anything more.

The coach is now skimming just above the lush foliage of one of the bay’s small islands. Hummingbirds like tiny jewels dart through curtains of hanging moss and flowering vines, flitting from blossom to blossom. An airy, elegant mansion is somehow of a piece with the landscape, like a white tern perched atop the leafy canopy. A hundred years ago, when the Corporation and the Guilds first lifted the city from obscurity and transformed it into a power to rival the Free Cities, titans of industry had come to rival or excel the Twelve in wealth if not in influence. Unable to take up residence on the Heights – even had one of the founding families wanted to sell, they were forbidden by law from abandoning their ancestral estates – the wealthiest men and women of the city had raised their own tiny paradises from the waters of the bay, planting island gardens to eclipse the Anthologia of the Council itself. Will’s great-grandmother had been among those titans, the city’s most celebrated architect, and the soaring forms she had first invented to adorn the great campus of the Corporation had been perfected here, in the sanctuary she built for herself and her wife and son.

The coach alights on a terrace and Will steps through the selectively permeable glass, like passing under a frozen waterfall. The terrace is Will’s own, private to his room, but he doesn’t dismiss the hovering coach. His parents each have an aerial of their own, and another three stand ready at the servants’ entrance to ferry staff and slaves between the island and the city. Even Will’s blue-blooded classmates might wonder at that particular extravagance – if any of them other than Mel ever deigned to set foot on the island, at any rate. 

The security system makes a barely audible chime of recognition as Will sets foot on the stone of the terrace. He goes in and spends three more fruitless hours searching for news about the Archon and especially about Ander. Mel would tell him he’s being ridiculous, and he knows he is. It isn’t like Ander has ever spoken two words to him, but Will has watched every ribbon-cutting and tea ceremony Ander has been photographed at since his father’s first election. He could as soon abandon the aerial coach and swim back to the mainland tomorrow as give up his search.

It’s at dinner, surprisingly, that he gets his first clue. Quizzed about his day at school, Will asks, “Aside from the abduction in civics?” and gets a raised eyebrow from his mom. Will explains and his parents exchange a pregnant look.

“Well, kiddo, I can’t say what will happen to your classmate,” his dad begins slowly, “but I can tell you that the Archon is accused of extortion and possible election fraud. Your grandpa–”

“Cimon,” Will’s mother cuts him off. “Don’t fill the boy’s head with your father’s harebrained schemes.”

Will isn’t about to be put off so easily. His grandfather is high up in the executive offices of the Corporation, the slave-trading and management organization that is the wellspring of the city’s wealth and power. Will doesn’t know him all that well – he lives at the Corporation’s headquarters and only makes his intimidating visits to the family estate a few times a year – but his dad always says that grandpa knows what most of the Councilors are going to think an hour before they decide to think it. If anyone has the answers Will needs right now, his grandfather will.

“What does grandpa have to do with the Archon?” Will asks. “Do you think he knows where Ander is? Can I call him after dinner?”

“Your grandfather doesn’t know anything for sure, honey, and pestering him won’t get you anywhere,” his mother tells him. “The Council will have to release a statement tomorrow, and I’m sure the details will be all over the news feeds before you know it. You’ll just have to be patient.”

“But–”

“Your mom’s right, sport,” his dad says. “How about we talk about something more fun. What would you like for your birthday this weekend?”

* * *

Will does call his grandfather, several times, but he only gets through to his secretaries. An assistant relays a vague promise to “look into the matter” on his grandfather’s behalf.

The next morning a spokesperson appears on the steps of the Hall and reads a crisp statement to the effect that the Archon has been removed from his position by a seven to four vote and will be tried in court on charges of bribery and election fraud. “Meanwhile,” she continues, “the Council has issued a writ of summary judgment against Mr. Calanthe on the count of extortion. Therefore the bulk of Mr. Calanthe’s assets, including his commercial holdings, all legally transferrable personal property, and his son, Anaxander Calanthe, will be sold immediately at auction. All proceeds will be used to make restitution to the state and to Mr. Calanthe’s victims.”

_Anaxander Calanthe will be sold immediately at auction._

Will spends the remainder of the week searching ceaselessly for the details of the auction and coming up with very little. He confirms that the auction took place the day after the arrest, and that Ander sold for a staggering amount of money. There’s no video feed, though, and no one is reporting the buyer. One article includes a small picture of Ander standing on an auction block, hands bound, wearing a slave’s brief white kilt and a haughty expression. Guiltily, Will saves the image to a mislabeled subfolder.

Eventually Will has to accept defeat and give up. The news feeds move on to the impending trial, Mel starts hanging up on him at the first mention of Ander’s name, and Will’s grandfather remains apparently too busy to talk to him. 

All of which means his birthday comes as quite a surprise.

After dinner, his parents escort him down to the beach, where he finds at the dock a sleek new sailcraft that can skim long distances over the waves like the leaping fish in the Summer Sea. 

“I’m glad you like it, kiddo, but don’t go sailing off over the horizon just yet. You’ve got one more present that your grandpa sent over. It’s waiting in your room. And Will,” his father calls after him, “your mom and I will be in the study if you’d like to talk about anything.”

Bemused at this somewhat portentous announcement, Will sets out for his room. His grandfather has sent presents on special occasions before, but they’re usually pretty boring, and it’s unclear what his parents might want to discuss about this one beyond reminding him to send a thank-you note. Last year, he received an eight-volume history of the city. Actual, physical books, bound in real leather from a dead animal. Possibly his mom and dad want to start a book club. Or a creepy museum.

Of course, if grandpa had sent another set of books, his parents would probably just have given them to him, or sent him to the library. Will stops outside his door, feeling an inexplicable thrill of excitement. It has to be something too bulky to move easily. Or else – something alive? A pet? The last time Will spent any significant one-on-one time with his grandfather, they visited an experimental genetics lab where Will was pretty obviously smitten with the miniaturized chimeras. A sharp-eyed lab tech only narrowly averted disaster when he spotted Will trying to hug one. That was all several years ago, but Will isn’t sure how clear his grandfather is on his current age. Maybe somebody has successfully spliced a non-venomous version? No, pets are too frivolous for his grandfather. The man probably wouldn’t see the point in coddling a useless animal.

No point standing outside guessing. Will cracks the door open, and meets a very familiar pair of cornflower blue eyes, blinking owlishly up at him as light spills into the dark room.

Will freezes for a second that feels like an age of the world. Then he trips over his own feet and nearly falls over in the process of backpedaling hastily out of the room. 

“Oh my gods. Oh my gods!” Will doesn’t remember sprinting on his way to the study, but he’s definitely short of breath. “You gave me a slave for my birthday. You gave me _Ander_ for my birthday!”

“He’s from your grandpa, actually,” his mom says. “Your father took some convincing, but I think it’s a splendid idea. You aren’t dating anyone–”

“Oh my gods–”

“–and this is a very normal and healthy way for you to explore your sexuality–” 

“Mom!”

“–in a safe and risk-free way,” his mom concludes patiently in her very best putting-up-with-Will’s-teenage-histrionics tone of voice. “When I was a young woman – oh, stop looking at me like that, honey – I got into all sorts of trouble over boys because I confused sex and romance. It’s so much cleaner to figure out what you’re doing without all the messy complications that come with a real relationship between peers.” 

This is historical information Will definitely hasn’t requested and does not want or need. And besides: “But I don’t want him!”

His dad gives him an amused look. “You’d sell that one better if you remembered to clear your search history, champ.” 

Will feels his face heat up. What else have they found on his computer?

“Besides,” his mom puts in, “Melanippe gave you away.” Before the treachery of that statement can sink in, she goes on, horrifyingly, “It’ll be good for you to have a project. When I was your age, I used to break and saddle-train horses. It was such fun!”

“Wait,” Will says. “You’re saying you didn’t send him for training?”

“He wouldn’t have been ready in time, Will,” his dad says. “It takes months to train a slave properly. But he’s had a crash course in obedience and he isn’t violent. Your mom and I would never put you in a dangerous situation. You know that.”

Will nods. He does know that. Still, he thinks he might have preferred a chimera, venomous or not. “You seriously couldn’t have gotten me a less mortifying gift? Or stopped Grandpa, I mean?”

That proves to be a mistake. His mom launches into a lecture about not only gratitude but responsibility. Untrained or not, Anaxander Calanthe is the former Archon’s son. Anaxander Calanthe is young and handsome. Anaxander Calanthe is a very valuable, very expensive birthday present, and it’s Will’s duty to see that he is trained properly and not ruined.

There is apparently a slave-training manual waiting for Will in his room, and his mom is threatening to quiz him on chapters one through four at the end of the week.

Meekly, Will excuses himself, but not without suffering one final humiliation. As he makes for the door, his mom kisses him on the forehead and presses a copy of a thin book – _Our Bodies, Our Slaves_ – into his unwilling hands with an admonition that Ander has been examined by a doctor but that Will should make sure to use protection if he ever shares him with anyone else.

Will flees.

Too cowardly to go back to his room, he calls Mel. 

“Happy birthday!” she says, giving Will a holographic hug. “By the look on your face, I’m guessing you’ve opened your present.”

“I can’t believe you told my mom and dad about my private–” 

“Your private feelings that are visible from orbit?” she asks with mock ingenuousness. “They wanted to make sure you’d be happy with your present. I think it’s sweet. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Do you know what they think I’m going to do with him?” Will demands.

“More or less,” says Mel. “I think the finer points of the mechanics are on the syllabus for next week in sex ed, but I’ve seen videos.”

“I’ll bet you have,” Will says. “Mel, I can’t! This was a terrible idea and there’s no way it can possibly work. I don’t think Ander even likes guys.”

“What does that matter?” Mel seems genuinely puzzled. “Oh, unless you want him to …?” She trails off, looking faintly unsettled. “I mean, if you do, I’m sure he can still–”

“No! It’s not that. But, I’d be, like, raping him.”

“Oh, Will,” Mel says with a grin. Her image reaches out as if to ruffle his hair. “You can’t rape a slave. If it helps, think of yourself as rescuing him from some dirty old man who hates Ander’s dad and wants to take it out on his son. Or worse. I bet there’s a brothel-keeper somewhere in the lower city who’d love to advertise the opportunity to fuck the Archon’s son. You’re the best master he could have hoped for. Hell, you practically worshipped him for years.”

“Will!” his dad’s voice calls out from the study. “Go untie the poor boy. He’s been trussed up in your bedroom since before dinner.”

Mel winks at him. “Tell me all about it on Sunday,” she says, and flickers out.

* * *

Here he is, the boy of Will’s hundred wistful daydreams, object of a thousand stolen glances. Kneeling beside his bed, staring up at him.

The only things breaking up the fantasy are the ball gag in Ander’s mouth and the murder in his eyes.

Ander’s hands are bound behind his back. He’s wearing sandals and the same kind of short slave’s kilt that he wore on the auction block, white linen wrapped low around his hips and tied with a shining silvery belt. He’s naked to the waist, save for a thick blue ribbon looped around his chest, just beneath his arms. It’s tied in front of him in a big, floppy bow. 

Will detects his dad’s questionable sense of humor at work.

“Hey.” Will kneels and meet those blue eyes. “Hold your head still, and I’ll get this thing off.” He tries not to tremble as he reaches behind Ander’s head to fumble the gag’s clasp open, soft blond hair tickling his palms. Gently, he eases the ball of the gag from Ander’s mouth.

Ander works his jaw for a second, glaring at Will, and says, “My father will ruin you and your whole family for this, Black.” 

Will suppresses a flinch. He doesn’t point out that Ander’s father has already ruined his own family and no longer has the power to touch Will’s. “I’m sorry about your dad, Ander.”

“Don’t talk about him!” Ander’s body spasms, arms straining against the restraints behind his back, as if he’d tried to lunge for Will and was brought up short. “Get these off of me,” he snaps, jerking his head back over his shoulder.

“You’re not going to do anything stupid if I let you loose?” Will asks.

“No. I won’t.” Ander ducks his head. “I tried to hit one of the guards from the auction house when I figured out what was happening, and they–” he cuts off, voice thick. “I won’t hit you, Black.”

“Call me Will,” he says, and scoots around behind Ander to examine the restraints. Leather cuffs buckled around his wrists are separated by a short metal bar, which is chained to a ring set into the floor. That ring wasn’t there when Will got up that morning. “So why all this if you haven’t been hitting people?” Will asks while he works at the buckles.

“The servants who brought me in here said they didn’t want me to spoil your _birthday surprise_ ,” Ander says with sneering emphasis. He stands up as Will gets the second cuff undone and staggers. Will catches his arms and steadies him on his feet.

“Get off,” Ander snaps, batting Will’s hands away. He tears the blue ribbon off and throws it onto the floor with unnecessary force. “I can’t wear this.” He gestures down at the narrow strip of linen around his waist.

Will realizes quite abruptly that he’s been too flustered to fully take in the fact that Ander is basically naked. In Will’s bedroom. Standing inches away, Ander is maybe half an inch taller than Will, if that. Will always thought the difference was much greater. Ander isn’t muscular, precisely, or at least not heavily muscled like the men in the vids. He’s more … sculpted. Like the temple statue of some god, or a beautiful hero come to life. 

“It looks good on you. Plenty of, uh–” Will’s courage fails him at the last moment “–people wear them. But you can look through my closet. My clothes will probably fit you. Well enough to sleep in, for sure. We can order anything you want tomorrow, or send for a tailor.”

Ander makes Will turn his back while he dresses himself in a cotton shirt that is noticeably tight across the chest and a pair of Will’s shorts. Ander in the tiny kilt was a lot to cope with, but Ander in Will’s underwear isn’t much easier.

“Why am I here, Black?” Ander asks, padding over to Will’s couch and sitting down. He makes the two-seater look a little bit like a throne. Or maybe a magistrate’s chair. Standing transfixed by those piercing eyes, Will suddenly feels uncomfortably like he’s on trial. 

“I didn’t ask for you,” he volunteers on behalf of the defense. “My parents – or, well, my grandfather, really – had the notion that, uh…” Will can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. 

“And where do you suppose they got the idea? Do you think I haven’t noticed you staring at me in school?”

“Uh, no?” Will tries. “To be honest, I didn’t think you noticed me much at all in school.”

“Sarah pointed it out. She thinks it’s really funny.” There’s a mean edge in Ander’s voice now.

“I, um … oh,” Will says intelligently. 

“Where am I supposed to sleep, then?” Ander asks after a long, awkward moment. Cross-examination over, apparently. 

“Well, with me? I guess?” Will ventures. The two-seat couch is too short for either of them to lie down on, and his bed is the only real option in the room. Will is simultaneously thrilled and horrified at the prospect.

Ander’s expression suggests he might prefer the cold embrace of the mahogany floor.

“Or I could ask someone to make you up a pallet,” Will offers quickly.

“Just stay on your side and keep your hands to yourself,” Ander says. He disappears into the bathroom for a few minutes before curling up on the side of the bed nearest the window, appropriating Will’s favorite pillow and the lion’s share of the bedsheets. 

A short time later, Will follows him. It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

* * *

Will takes Ander sailing in the morning. 

The cool, heady rush of wind and spray always feels like freedom to Will, and an easy calm falls over him as the sailcraft knifes through the waves. Ander seems to feel it, too, and unbends a little. He even laughs once in surprised delight when Will jumps the craft, sending them careening over the crests of the waves for a dozen lengths. 

Drifting in the calm water beyond the reef, they both lie on the deck, fingers dangling over the side. The late morning sun spreads a bright patina of liquid gold over the surface of the water, and Ander’s hair is gilded with the same light. Will’s breath catches just to look at him.

“We used to come down to the sea when the Council was out of session,” Ander says. “We have an island down the coast. Had, I guess.” He grimaces. “We stopped coming anyway, after my mother left.” He strikes the water with the back of his hand, startling a school of silver-sided fish that have been swimming alongside the boat. “Now I wish she’d taken me with her.”

“Did you know? About your dad, I mean.”

Ander rolls his head from side to side on the deck, which Will takes to mean no. “I still don’t even know what he’s charged with.”

“Extortion, and election tampering,” Will tells him. “And bribery, I think.” 

“They didn’t even tell me,” Ander says. “When I asked what was happening, when I demanded to see my dad, they hit me. With shock sticks, mostly. I guess they didn’t want to leave bruises before the auction.”

“I’m sorry,” Will says.

“It still feels like it isn’t real. It’s like, all my life, everyone has cared what I thought, even if I was at a gallery opening or a bill-signing and I didn’t understand the first thing about art, or the law, or whatever was happening. Everyone wanted to impress me, to make me happy so I’d remember them or say something to my dad. Now no one cares what I think about my own clothing, or what happens to me. I didn’t even do anything, and my life is just – over.” He bites his bottom lip. “You wouldn’t get it, I guess. You’ve never been someone who matters.”

Will doesn’t know what to say to that, so they lapse into silence. The only sounds he hears are the waves and the cries of the sea birds until he takes them back to shore.

A tall, muscular woman is waiting for them at the dock. She’s holding a black leather case and beckons as soon as Will finishes tying up the sailcraft.

“Which of you is William?” she asks, taking in their similar clothing with a faintly surprised expression. At Will’s nod, she continues, “Your parents sent me down. I’m here to mark your new slave.”

“What do you mean, mark him?” Will asks.

“What the fuck do you think–”

“Legally, privately owned slaves are required to display identification numbers while on the mainland. You can do whatever you like with him out here, but he needs to be tattooed in order to accompany you to the Didaskeleion or anywhere else within the city boundaries.” As she talks, she withdraws an instrument a bit like a thick black pen from her case.

Will hasn’t considered taking Ander to school with him, but now that he thinks about it, it’s obvious that his parents will want him to finish his secondary education, and probably accompany Will to the University as well. An educated slave is a valuable asset.

Ander is looking ready to storm off, so Will snags his arm before he can move. Ander shoots him a venomous look, but surprisingly he doesn’t try to pull away.

“On the left shoulder is usual,” the woman says to Will. “If you have no objection?”

“Talk to _me_ ,” Ander snarls at her.

“Hold him still, please.”

Mutely, Will steps behind Ander and takes hold of his upper arms, pulling his back against Will’s chest. He feels Ander’s biceps – definitely more impressive than his own! – tense and flex as the woman steps closer and pushes aside the loose collar of Ander’s shirt (Will’s, really) to expose pale, unblemished skin. Will watches over Ander’s shoulder while she writes BLACK followed by an identification number in small, neat script just below Ander’s collar bone. Ander’s breath hisses through his teeth, but he doesn’t try to move before she finishes.

“There’s a good boy,” she says, applying an antiseptic. She pats Ander on the cheek. “You have a nice day now, William, and enjoy this fellow. He’s a handsome one.”

Ander’s face is a storm cloud as they walk back up to Will’s room. Ander declares himself worn out and flops down on the bed on his side, putting his back to Will. He goes conspicuously still. Well, he’s had a rough week, Will supposes.

While Ander sleeps – or maybe pretends to sleep – Will checks out some of the gear his grandfather sent over with Ander. In addition to the ring in the floor beside his bed, several more have been set into the empty double doorway that separates Will’s bedroom from the covered section of his terrace. A small chest he didn’t notice before is stashed in a corner. Someone has used it to stow away the leather cuffs and gag he found Ander in yesterday. It also holds a second pair of cuffs, an array of prophylactics and lubricants, several more of the white linen slave kilts, and a large velvet bag embroidered with the Corporation’s logo, gold on black. 

Inside the bag he finds a note – “Happy birthday! Thought these might help. Love, Grandpa” – and three objects: a silver band of metal in the shape of a collar; a long, thin, flexible rod, also silver in color, but too light and too supple to be made of any metal Will is familiar with; and a tablet stamped with the same Corporate insignia as the bag. The tablet must be keyed to his biometrics because it hums to life as soon as Will touches it. It has icons that resemble the collar and rod – which is apparently called a switch – that each pull up a bewildering menu of options. There’s also a document titled “Slave Training: Basics for Beginners.”

He opens the guide and peruses the table of contents. He skims “The Power of Rules” and “The Carrot and the Stick: Advice on Punishments and Rewards from the Experts” before selecting the first chapter, “Top Ten Mistakes of First-Time Trainers.”

_#1: You Command, He Obeys_

_Your first and most important job as a new owner is to teach your slave his place. He needs to learn that his life, time, and body are yours and not his own. Many first-time trainers believe that an easy-going or lenient attitude will earn a slave’s good will and ensure docile behavior. Wrong! Privileges and indulgences can be granted when they are earned, but respect and obedience must always come first._

_The most dangerous thing you can give your new slave is his own way. Give him rules, not choices!_

Will powers down the tablet and spends the afternoon working on his civics presentation instead.

If he’s of a mind to soothe Ander’s bruised ego, dinner goes about as poorly as it’s possible for something as simple as eating a meal to go. When Will shows up with Ander in tow, his father clears his throat and pointedly suggests he show Ander where the household slaves take their meals. 

Ander is bright red with embarrassment and anger as Will leads him downstairs. “A week ago, your merchant parents would have fallen all over themselves if I’d said two words to them, Black,” he says.

“You don’t know my ‘merchant parents’ very well, Calanthe,” Will says, stung pride overcoming sympathy. “My mom would probably try bullying the Archon in the Hall of the Council given the chance.” 

He understands, though, which is why he mentally kicks himself when they arrive in the servants’ hall and the housekeeper politely but firmly directs Ander down yet another stairway to the slaves’ quarters. Apparently Ander’s ears can still get redder.

“Why did you do that?” Will asks his dad back in the dining room. “Ander is the Archon’s son! He’s our guest!” 

“No, honey, he’s not,” his mom says. “Philocrates Calanthe is not the Archon any longer, and Anaxander is not our guest. He’s fallen very far very quickly, and I understand that you feel sorry for him, but you’re not doing the boy any favors by confusing him.”

“Was this a mistake, Will? Giving you someone you knew?” His dad asks. “Would you rather have someone else?” 

“No, of course not! It’s just–”

“Then you need to take some responsibility, Will, for his sake as well as yours,” his mom says. “Not dressing him in your clothes would be a good start.”

Will broods on that through the rest of dinner. His parents discuss the news: the former Archon’s upcoming trial, the possibility of Corporate meddling in Council politics, and maneuvering by Councilors Jonquil, Senna, and Bryony to delay the election of a new Archon. Will barely hears any of it. Would Ander truly be better off if Will were more forceful with him? Wouldn’t it be better to ease him into the reality of his new life? To give him time to adjust? 

Back in his room, Will is jolted out of his reverie at the sight of Ander shirtless, covered in blood, and holding a knife slackly in his hand.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Will yells, sprinting five steps into the room and wrestling the knife from Ander’s unresisting grip.

He’s about to shout for help, to call for a doctor, when he sees that the blood on Ander’s chest is all from a single, thin cut, long but shallow, beneath his left collar bone. The cut is directly above Ander’s slave tattoo, now partially obscured by blood.

He drags Ander into the bathroom and makes him sit on the edge of the massive tub – Mel has called it more of a small pool – while he searches the medicine cabinet for first aid equipment.

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” he asks, cleaning the wound with a damp cloth.

“I – the tattoo–”

“Are you seriously telling me that you thought you could cut a slave tattoo out of your own skin with – is this a fruit knife?” He opens a tiny vial of what looks like black sand and smears it across the cut with his thumb. The blood stops trickling almost immediately as the tiny machines begin knitting the skin back together.

“I’d kind of started to figure out it wasn’t a great idea when you came in,” Ander admits.

“Not a great idea? Medically or legally? Do you know what they do to slaves who impersonate free citizens?” Will doesn’t, but he’s certain it’s gruesome. “Where did you even get a knife?”

“I slipped it into my trouser pocket at dinner.”

“Of all the pointless, half-baked, stupid things to do,” Will says, dabbing away at the blood with unnecessary force. It’s kind of a miracle that he can stay this angry while basically feeling up Ander’s chest.

He works in grim silence until the cut finishes closing and the little mender-bots melt away, leaving unblemished skin behind. Probably a real medic wouldn’t have wasted them on a superficial cut like this – they cost as much as a decent-sized house in the Guild district – but Will isn’t medically trained and he definitely doesn’t want his parents finding out about this. He reaches a terrifying decision.

“Follow me,” he says before he loses his nerve, and stalks back to the main room. There he sits down on his bed and beckons to Ander. “Come here.”

“Why?” 

“I’m going to punish you,” Will says, trying to put more resolve into his voice than he feels.

“Punish me? For what?”

“Theft. You stole a knife from the slaves’ quarters. Vandalism. You cut yourself, which is damage to my personal property.” Will frowns. “Or maybe my grandfather’s property. I’m not sure if I legally own you.” He decides he’ll check later because he’s drifting off topic. “Fraud. You tried to deface a legal document and destroy proof of ownership.”

“You’re not serious, Black.”

“I am. If you don’t want to cooperate, I’ll call a couple of the house slaves up here and tell them to hold you down. So this is your last chance to do this without an audience. Come here, Ander. Right now.” 

Ander stares like he’s looking at a dog that’s suddenly decided it’s a manticore. Will tries not to be too obvious about holding his breath. For all his bold words, he’s not sure he has the nerve to resort to brute force. Hell, he’s not sure he has the nerve for this at all. All of which has to be written plainly on his face.

They stare at one another, weighing their options. Just when Will is sure Ander is about to call his bluff, he ducks his head and shuffles forward to stand uncertainly beside the bed.

“What are you going to do?” Ander asks.

Will steels himself. No turning back now. “This,” he says, and grabs Ander by the wrist and pulls hard. Ander goes sprawling across his lap.

“What the hell? Get off me!” Ander tries to scramble back up. He doesn’t have a lot of leverage, but it still takes all Will’s strength to hold him down.

“Stop fighting,” Will says. “I told you. This is going to happen. If I have to restrain you, or call others to restrain you, I will.”

Ander goes still. “Then do it, asshole,” he says.

Well, that sounds like a promising start on remorse. Will leans over to pull Ander’s legs up onto the bed so that his weight rests on the mattress instead of threatening to drag him off of Will’s lap. He has to kind of tilt Ander awkwardly in order to reach under him and undo the button on his trousers. He ignores Ander’s incredulous “Seriously?” and a frankly unnecessary amount of squirming. Ander isn’t exactly fighting him but he’s definitely not being helpful. Will still manages to shuck the trousers – which are ruined, the waistband caked with blood – down to Ander’s knees. Ander swears at Will again when his underwear follows.

He rests his hand lightly on Ander’s ass and takes a slow, steadying breath. Part of him is horrified at what he’s about to do, but another part is excited. (Will fervently hopes Ander can’t feel the part of him that is excited.) 

_My hand is on Ander Calanthe’s bare ass_ , Will thinks to himself. _My hand is on Ander Calanthe’s bare ass. Ander Calanthe’s_ dick _is touching my_ – no. This isn’t helping.

Still, there’s something in Will that wants to savor the moment. For almost as long as he can remember, Ander has felt impossibly and forever out of reach, like sunlit water vanishing behind the horizon or the cold stars that shine above the cliffs of the city at night. Now he’s here, basically naked, and Will can feel the weight of him pressing against his thighs, the heat of his body beneath his hand. Ander Calanthe is made of flesh. There’s a wrongness that Will feels looking down at his hand on Ander’s naked skin, something carnal and lewd. 

Will lifts his hand up above his shoulder and brings it down hard and fast. The sound is shockingly loud. He watches in fascination as a rosy handprint appears where his hand strikes skin. He repeats the motion, then repeats it again. He takes his time, methodically turning every inch of Ander’s ass pale red. 

“I’m not a kid, you know,” Ander says. “You’re not going to bully me into obeying you with a spanking.”

That gives Will more pause than he’s willing to admit. There is something that feels childish, almost silly, about punishing Ander by spanking him over his knee like a little kid. But Will can’t bring himself to do more, to use a strap or a paddle or to lash Ander the way he’s seen slaves whipped in the city streets. That feels like violence. Like cruelty.

So Will redoubles his efforts and continues. The only sounds in the room are their breathing and the beat of Will’s palm striking flesh. Slowly, rosy skin turns dusky red. Maybe Will is afraid to take this too far precisely because there _is_ something cruel in him, something that smolders deep in his chest and quickens his pulse when Ander begins to show small signs of discomfort. He lets slip a tiny gasp, quickly suppressed, when Will hits the crease between his ass and thigh. So Will does it again, harder, and lingers there as Ander’s toes curl and begin kneading the bedsheets. Now and then Ander shifts slightly against Will’s thighs, as if involuntarily trying to roll his hips out from under the next blow.

“Okay!” Ander says. “Enough already.”

Will ignores him and keeps up a steady rhythm. 

“All right, Black! You win! I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Will asks, resting his hand on Ander’s upturned ass. The ruddy skin feels hot to the touch. Will’s arm is getting tired, though.

“I’m sorry I stole the knife. It was stupid to cut myself. I won’t do anything like that again, I promise.”

“One more thing,” Will says, going back to work on Ander’s upper thighs. Ander makes a soft whining noise of protest. “My name is William Black. You’re going to call me Will. Say it.” 

“Okay, I’ll call you Will.”

“Say ‘I’m sorry, Will, and I won’t ever do anything this stupid again.’”

“I’m – ow! – sorry, Will. I won’t ever do anything this stupid again,” Ander grates out.

Will stops spanking and lets Ander up. Ander’s newfound tractability evaporates almost as soon as he’s back on his own two feet and clothed again, but he does use Will’s given name in the course of sulking and grumbling his way through the rest of the evening. He flatly refuses to share the bed, so Will, too tired to fight, calls a servant to set up a pallet for Ander. He sleeps on his stomach, Will is amused to note.

As Will lies down himself, he reflects that that could have gone a lot worse. He can hardly expect to cow Ander completely with a few minutes spent over Will’s knee, but he’s reasonably confident that Ander would rather avoid suffering a repeat of the night’s events. Embarrassment alone should make sure of that. 

It’s kind of a shame, Will muses, and drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Mel comes over on Sunday to work on their civics presentation. Her family doesn’t own a coach, so Will sends his own and waits for her out on the terrace. 

Things get off to a bad start when Will tactfully sends Ander to the kitchen for cold drinks before Mel can launch into the inevitable interrogation on the subject of how Will spent his birthday weekend. By his expression, Ander takes the politely phrased request about as well as a slap to the face. Will knows he’s made the right call when the first thing out of Mel’s mouth is an observation about Ander’s retreating ass followed by a very direct question that makes Will blush furiously.

“Seriously? You haven’t done _anything_ with him?” Mel asks, when several follow-up questions produce only stammering. She’s clearly appalled at Will’s lack of initiative. “And am I crazy, or is he wearing your clothes?”

“I thought I might have him write up the electoral history for our project?” Will ventures. He may not feel comfortable coercing Ander into sex, but he has no problem using him for tedious school work.

“You’re hopeless,” Mel tells him sadly. That stings, so Will launches into a detailed explanation of the past two days.

Unfortunately, Will is just finishing his account of last night’s debacle and its outcome when a shadow falls over his chair. He jumps guiltily to find Ander behind him with a tray of iced beverages and an icier expression. Even more unfortunately, Mel makes a joke about getting Ander a collar with a bell, which leads to him accidentally-on-purpose spilling both drinks down the front of her shirt.

Will apologizes over and over and loans Mel a shirt, but things go downhill from there. Ander isn’t even trying to behave. He peppers their conversation with snide remarks until Will orders him to stand facing the wall and be quiet until they finish, and Ander somehow manages to do even that sarcastically.

“What the hell was that?” Will rounds on him the moment the coach begins skimming away over the treetops.

Ander looks like he’s about to fire back with an angry retort, but his mouth opens without making a sound and he visibly reconsiders. “I don’t know,” he says finally, refusing to meet Will’s eyes. 

“Why were you so rude to Mel? I thought you liked her! You’ve certainly always been nicer to her than to me.”

Ander hangs his head and actually manages to look contrite for once. “It’s not like that, really. It’s just… I don’t know. I guess I can’t stand her seeing me like this. Her coming here, seeing me as a slave – it makes it all real.”

“Why? Last night wasn’t real enough for you?” Will asks.

Ander blushes, then scowls. “It’s not the same. Your parents are merchants. Hepatica may not have had money for generations, but they’re still one of the Twelve. Mel is a peer.”

Will’s parents aren’t actually merchants. The bulk of their money comes through Will’s grandfather, who inherited his great-grandmother’s stake in the Corporation. They spend their time consulting on architectural projects and serving on philanthropic boards. But Will supposes that to Ander, everyone without an ancestor’s signature on the Compact is a merchant, unless they’re a servant. 

Or a slave.

“Mel isn’t your peer,” Will says coldly. “Or rather, you aren’t hers. Or mine.” Ander’s head snaps up. “I’m going to make sure you remember that.”

“Will–”

“Take off your clothes and wait here. If you argue with me, I promise you’ll regret it.”

Will turns and goes inside without waiting for an answer. Opening the chest that arrived with Ander, he lays a couple of items out on his desk and returns outside with the tablet, the flexible rod, and a pair of the leather cuffs. 

Ander is naked and actually looks scared. Good. Will sets down the tablet and switch to strap the cuffs around his wrists and guides him to the empty double doorway between his room and the terrace. 

“Turn around and lift your arms,” he says. Ander mutely obeys, and Will chains the cuffs to the rings set into opposite corners of the doorframe. He pulls them tight so that Ander has to stand on his tiptoes to maintain contact with the ground.

Will retrieves the tablet and opens the app that controls the switch. The thin, bendable rod is a neurostim device: transient contact with human skin will release a galvanic current that can send a variety of sensory impulses – Will chooses heat and pain – to the brain. It was made as a means of flogging a slave, or worse, without inflicting any lasting physical damage. Will flexes the switch, twisting its silvery length in his hands. It feels much too light for its purpose.

“What is that thing?” Ander cranes his neck to look nervously over his shoulder. “What are you doing?” 

“This,” Will says, and swings the switch to strike Ander across the shoulders. It makes a thwipping sound, deceptively soft, as it connects, but Ander cries out and jerks in his bonds. The only trace of its passage is a faint red line across Ander’s back.

“Do your best to keep your legs together,” Will says, and swings again. Lower this time.

He works quickly, striping Ander from shoulders to knees. Ander’s cries of pain quickly give way to pleas, which dissolve into inarticulate sobbing. Will is mesmerized by the beauty of his naked body, taut muscles straining against the restraints as he twists and writhes in a futile effort to evade the switch. The cruel ember that woke in him last night roars again to life, kindled by Ander’s helplessness and the headiness of the power Will holds over him. He wants to make this moment last, to stretch Ander’s agony out forever.

Guilt stops him. Guilt and the sudden recollection that he’s supposed to be doing this for a reason.

Ander sags in his bonds as Will sets the switch aside. He runs his hand down the already-fading stripes across Ander’s back, his thighs, his ass. Circling round, he stands inches from Ander’s heaving chest and brushes damp blond hair back from reddened eyes. 

“Do you understand, now, who you are?” Will asks softly.

“Slave,” Ander chokes out, voice cracking. His face is streaked with tears.

“Sorry?”

“Your slave,” Ander says, voice steadier.

“Good,” says Will. “Now we’re going to practice. I’m going to let you loose and give an order you won’t like. And you? You’re going to obey it.”

Ander nods, and Will releases him from the cuffs. He leaves them hanging in the doorway, though.

“On my desk, you’ll find a slave’s kilt and belt, which will be the only clothing you will wear from now on, unless I say differently. You’ll wear them here and when I take you to school tomorrow. Put them on, and bring me the collar next to them.”

Ander pads silently away into room and Will can see that the marks left by the switch have already all but disappeared. He returns with the white linen garment wrapped around his waist like a skirt, slung low across his hips and tied with the silver belt. In his hands is the collar.

“On your knees,” Will tells him, and Ander sinks down to kneel in front of him, holding out the collar. Will runs an absent hand through Ander’s hair as he unlocks the collar through the tablet app, causing an invisible clasp to open the seemingly solid silver band. He closes it around Ander’s throat and it locks, fusing together as if no break had never existed.

“There,” he says. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

* * *

They spend the afternoon sailing and return to Will’s room only when the last of the sun vanishes behind the horizon. 

“Come on, we’re taking a shower,” Will says, reaching over to undo the clasp of Ander’s belt. The white cloth falls to the floor, quickly followed by Will’s own clothes. He ushers Ander into the bathroom.

The shower of blue slate and glass is more than big enough to fit them both comfortably. The warm water falls like heavy, gentle rain from a wide, rectangular shower head. It’s a welcome sensation after hours spent out on in the wind and sea-spray. Ander stands watching in uncertainty and obvious discomfort until Will takes him by the waist and draws him close. He looks into cornflower eyes and slides his hands down to explore the smooth skin of Ander’s chest, his stomach, the contours of his hips. Lower.

Ander’s breath catches audibly. Then, too casually: “You have one of your own, you know.” 

Will grins. “So you haven’t completely lost your nerve. No, don’t apologize. I want you obedient, not robotic.”

Will slides one hand around to palm Ander’s ass, runs the other up his stomach to rest just above his pectoral muscle and feel the pounding beat of his heart. Ander’s breathing is rapid now, and Will realizes that Ander thinks he’s about to fuck him.

“Turn around,” he orders. He takes perverse pleasure in Ander’s nervousness, the little jump he makes when Will touches the small of his back. He watches water coursing down the slope of Ander’s shoulders, his tapered waist, the perfect curve of his ass. He leans forward and knows Ander can feel the hard press of his dick.

He could do it, Will realizes. He wants to do it, and there’s nothing to stop him from fucking Ander right now. 

Nothing except the nagging certainty that he’ll somehow do it wrong. Doesn’t he need lube? An image swims into Will’s head of himself fumbling around, somehow misjudging his position, not getting in. He’s sure he’ll only humiliate himself if he goes through with this.

And so Will takes a step back. He washes Ander’s back and makes Ander wash his in turn, thrilling at the contact even as he curses his own cowardice in frustration.

That night he makes Ander sleep in his bed and holds him close, pressing up against his back so he can loop an arm around his waist. 

“Have you ever had sex, Ander?” Will asks into the darkness. 

Silence. And then: “With Sarah,” comes the reluctant answer.

“What have you done with her?” More silence. Will is patient for a time, then presses, “Would you rather go get me the switch?”

That does the trick. “Just … sex,” Ander says. “We only did it once.” Another pause. “She jerked me off a few times.”

“No one else? What about slaves?”

“A couple, I guess. Nothing serious.”

“No men, though?” Will asks.

“No!” Ander’s answer is a little too quick. Will makes a skeptical noise and waits him out. “Fine. Once. Just a blowjob. I was horny and fourteen and my dad had told the girls not to – you know.”

That definitely piques Will’s interest. “Could you give one, do you think?”

Ander shifts a little in Will’s arms, like he wants to pull away. He can probably feel that Will is intrigued. “Not very well, I don’t think.”

Will tightens his grip and doesn’t let him go. “That’s too bad.” He yawns, then smiles sleepily into the nape of Ander’s neck. “Maybe we can get you lessons or something.”

* * *

Will is nervous about taking Ander to school. Ander will be far from the only slave following a student around and kneeling in the back of every class, but he’ll be the only slave who used to be a student himself. A week ago, he sat in the center of a court of admirers, commandeering the attention of everyone around him. How will his classmates react to Ander in a slave’s kilt, tagging along at the heels of quiet, unassuming Will Black? Does anyone other than Mel even know what happened to him?

To Will’s surprise, though, Ander’s presence mostly seems to earn him admiration. Oh, there’s shock, at first, and a lot of people who don’t seem to know quite how to react. And there’s also hostility: Nico Jonquil and his friends stare daggers at Will, and Sarah Minley scurries away every time he appears with Ander in tow and won’t meet his eyes. But most of the people who approach Will are curious, maybe even envious, as if the shadow of Ander’s former popularity lends Will a kind of borrowed glamor. (Will doesn’t think Ander’s relative state of undress hurts, either.) Others may just be glad to see Ander humbled: he wasn’t exactly a bully, but he wasn’t universally beloved by any stretch of the imagination.

It was probably inevitable that Ander would backslide a little under the eyes of so many of his former peers. There’s a lot of locker talk, prurient questions and crude suggestions about what Will might get up to with his slave, and nobody bothers to lower their voice. When Orion Larkspur offers to loan Will his glider for a chance to “borrow” Ander overnight, Ander makes a loud announcement concerning Orion’s mother and one of the more notorious brothels in the lower city. Will drags him away by the ear.

“It’s not like I was – ow! – saying anything everyone doesn’t already know,” Ander protests.

“Ander, I’m warning you.”

“But she–”

“Open your mouth.”

Ander spends the rest of the day gagged and trying very hard to pretend he’s invisible. It prompts a fair amount of laughter and pointing but also seems to cure him of the impulse to jump into Will’s conversations with both feet.

Will and Mel’s civics presentation goes well in spite of their disastrous planning session. Professor Cortez probably cuts them some slack because they’re short a group member. It’s nice to have Ander along as a notetaker so that Will can just listen – or, okay, sometimes doodle – in class. Ander’s notes aren’t all that reliable at first, but they improve markedly when Will promises him a switching for every exam question that touches on missing material.

It’s at an after school study session on Friday for sex ed that things go a little off the rails. Orion, Sarah, and Nico are all there, and sometimes Will thinks teachers amuse themselves by assigning the most socially awkward groups possible. Sarah is doing her usual thing of avoiding Will’s eyes while Nico looks torn between going to comfort Ander, who is kneeling as usual at the back of the classroom, and leaping over the table to wring Will’s neck for him.

Orion, who was apparently genetically engineered to be immune to embarrassment, is paging through the textbook on his tablet and asking awkward questions about anatomy and venereal disease.

“Can men seriously orgasm from getting fucked? Like, just because some dude’s dick is pushing on the prostate?” No one can seem to find the words to answer that. “I mean, it just seems so unlikely,” he sails blithely on. “Will, you’ve fucked Ander a bunch of times, right?”

Will stammers and tries to come up with a way to temporize without actually lying – he’s implied before that he’s gone a lot further than he actually has – and starts to mumble out a plausible non-denial.

“The fuck he has,” Ander cuts him off from the back of the room.

Nico laughs derisively. Will’s ears are burning. What a pathetic lie to be caught out in.

Weirdly, Sarah chooses that moment to finally meet Will’s eyes. He expects anger or contempt, like he’s used to from Nico, but instead she looks … surprised? Curious?

“Let’s find out,” Will answers Orion with forced nonchalance. He’s still looking at Sarah, though. “Ander, come here.” Is she trying not to smile?

Ander looks like he already regrets speaking up. He doesn’t move, so Will grabs him by the collar and hauls him to his feet, shoving him toward the table. “Get up there,” he says.

“You’re an asshole, Black, and I’m leaving,” Nico says. When Sarah doesn’t follow suit, he turns on her. “You were his girlfriend.”

“I was his accessory,” Sarah says, surprising Will again. “Now he gets a turn to find out what it feels like when someone treats you like they own you.”

Nico just shakes his head, scowling, and stalks out of the room.

Ander is up on the table now, on hands and knees. Will reaches up to unclasp the silver belt.

“Please,” Ander says, looking around over his shoulder to meet Will’s eyes. Will shakes his head. He started this in a fit of embarrassed pique, but now he’s committed. The white kilt comes unwrapped and falls to the floor. 

“Holy shit,” Orion says. He looks like the high holidays have come early. 

Will isn’t actually certain what to do next, but Sarah comes to his rescue. She’s walked over to a classroom display (a glass case labeled “Practice Safe Sex, Alone or Together!” in cheerful multi-colored letters) and is liberating what looks to be a dildo – no, a vibrator shaped like a dick, Will can see the on switch – and a bottle of lube, which she presents to Will with a flourish.

School is over but clubs and sports are just letting out, and a small crowd has started forming outside the glass wall of the classroom. Will doesn’t blame them. Before last week, the sight of Ander naked and on all fours would have been the highlight of Will’s existence to date. It still easily makes his top five. He only wishes he hadn’t decided to do this in public.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into Ander’s ear, too low for Sarah and Orion to hear, as he works oil along the length of the vibrator. He may be overdoing the lubricant, but he doesn’t want to hurt him.

“Then don’t,” Ander whispers back, lips barely moving. “Please, don’t.”

Will lays a hand on the small of Ander’s back and can feel him actually quiver. Against his will, he feels a spark of arousal begin burning in his chest. 

Ander makes a choked, pitiful noise when Will presses the vibrator against his asshole. It doesn’t go in easily and he doesn’t want to force it. So he switches the vibrator on at the lowest setting and holds it there, patient as he can be, maintaining a gentle, steady pressure. Slowly but inexorably, the length of the shaft disappears into Ander’s body.

Reluctance forgotten, Will shares a grin with Orion and Sarah. Ander groans and rocks forward, like he can somehow climb right off the vibrating shaft buried in his ass. 

“Don’t you dare move,” Will says, giving him a sharp slap across the thighs. As a precaution, he loops his free arm around Ander’s hips to hold him in place.

“Take it out,” Ander mumbles. “Too big. It hurts.”

“It does not hurt, you big baby,” Sarah tells him. “It’s barely any bigger than a regular dick.”

“Because you’re such an exp–” Ander cuts off with a gasp when Will begins to move the vibrator; slow, short movements at first that gradually become longer and faster.

“His dick isn’t even really hard,” Orion says. He’s right. Will can see Ander’s dick and balls hanging down between his legs. He’s basically fucking Ander with the vibrator now, pulling it most of the way out and then thrusting it in up to the base, but Ander’s dick is semi-erect at best. It’s just kind of flopping around as Will works the vibrator deeper and Ander squirms a bit against his hold.

“Here,” Sarah says. She holds up an anatomical diagram on Orion’s tablet. It’s the least sexy picture of human genitalia Will has seen in his life. “Try angling it,” she suggests. “No, lower.” She runs a nail along the tight strip of skin just above the base of Ander’s scrotum, and he jerks and gives a full body shudder. He’d probably have climbed right off the table if not for Will’s restraining arm across his hips. His dick is definitely taking more of an interest now, though.

Will adjusts his angle, probing toward the spot lit up on the diagram. Not quite … there. He chuckles when Ander yelps and arches his back, dick now rock hard between his legs. Will maintains the angle and works the length of the vibrator in and out, ripping a series of involuntary little gasps and moans from deep in Ander’s throat. Ander begins to pant and sweat as Will continues, like he’s fighting against something. The sounds escaping his clenched teeth become more frantic. Fighting and losing.

Will flicks the vibrator’s switch to the highest setting and grinds it hard against that spot. Ander makes a noise that’s positively pornographic and he bucks his hips like he’s trying to hump Will’s arm. Will keeps the pressure on. Slowly, Ander’s whole body goes tense: back arched, fists clenched, toes curling. Then he gives a despairing cry and spasms in Will’s grip. Drops of white semen spatter across the table.

Orion is grinning from ear to ear but Sarah looks a little dazed. There’s scattered applause from out in the hall, audible through the half-open door of the classroom. 

Meanwhile, Ander’s whole body has gone slack so that Will is now holding him up by main force. He lets go and Ander collapses onto the table, curling up like he’s trying to hide both his naked body and his tear-streaked face. 

The noise of the clapping and catcalls from the hallway draws the attention of one of their teachers, who chivvies the crowd away. He takes in the scene in the classroom with a “not paid nearly enough for this shit” expression. He tells the three of them off for unauthorized use of school premises and gives Will strict orders to sanitize the table before he leaves.

Ander refuses to talk to Will all the way home. Not even dire threats induce him to acknowledge his presence. Will decides to give him space to calm down and goes to Mel’s to hang out for the evening.

When he comes home, his mom is waiting for him on the terrace outside his room and wearing one of her most serious expressions.

“Anaxander tried to run away,” she tells him before he can ask what’s going on. Will feels a sick, swooping sensation in his stomach. If a patrol had caught him… “Don’t worry. One of the servants spotted him stealing the sailcraft and your father went out and retrieved him. He’s chained up in your room. But Will, this is very serious. You have to take better care of your things. If you don’t believe you can handle the situation with Anaxander, we need to send him away to be trained by someone who can.”

“I can handle it, mom.”

“You have to understand that he’s not just any slave. If Anaxander gets into any trouble with the law, it’ll make all the news feeds. The whole family will come in for criticism.”

“I understand. I’ll handle it, I promise.”

She regards him thoughtfully for a minute, obviously assessing his determination. “All right, sweetie. But I’m trusting you to make sure that this doesn’t happen again.”

Will nods and kisses his mom goodnight.

Ander is kneeling where Will found him on that first night, chained up beside the bed. He looks up at Will with wide, frightened eyes.

He begins apologizing as soon as Will releases him and takes off the gag. Will just presses a finger to Ander’s lips and shakes his head. He retrieves the Corporation tablet and pulls up the app that controls the collar. Then he sits down on the bed, patting the mattress beside him.

“I’m sorry,” Ander says. He sits where Will indicates and makes as if to lie down across his knees, but Will stops him with a hand pressed against his bare chest.

“Not like that,” he says. “Turn over.”

Ander is obviously confused but does as Will asks. Will guides him forward so that he lies on his back, head resting in Will’s lap.

“I didn’t mean to. I mean, I know I promised I wouldn’t – I didn’t think.”

“I know.” Will looks down into those blue eyes, staring up at him in entreaty. “I understand.” 

He does understand. Ander was never born for this, wasn’t raised to it. Will hasn’t done enough to help him accept it. He taps a finger against the tablet’s screen and waits.

It only takes a few seconds. “Will,” Ander’s voice is urgent, suddenly scared and very small. “I can’t move my arms and legs.”

“It’s okay,” Will tells him. “It’s only temporary.” He lays a hand on Ander’s chest, fingers splayed over his heart. 

“In few minutes, when you catch your breath, I want you to tell me how happy you are being my slave.” There are tears at the corners of Ander’s eyes. Will thinks there may be tears in his, too. With his free hand he taps the tablet a second time, then begins gently stroking Ander’s hair, golden and soft as it slips through his fingers. “When I believe you, I’ll stop.”

Will squeezes his eyes shut as it begins, wishing he could close his ears to Ander’s piercing screams.

* * *

Ander is almost too docile in the following week, even listless. Will digs into “Slave Training: Basics for Beginners” and implements a system of rewards and incentives alongside the punishments, and Ander appears to respond well. He smiles when Will praises him and suffers caresses and touching with good humor. He turns out to be a very able kisser, responsive and natural, and Will quickly overcomes his initial reluctance with an assortment of bribes. They both love to sail and Ander will even joke with Will when they’re out on the water.

Midway through the week, Will learns from his parents that Ander’s dad has been acquitted at trial. Sophronia Jonquil – Nico’s grandmother and Philocrates Calanthe’s most powerful ally on the Council – is counter-suing on Calanthe’s behalf, for reinstatement to the Council if not the Archonship. Will isn’t sure if he should tell Ander. Will learning of father’s freedom calm Ander or make it harder for him to accept his own situation? He keeps quiet.

Over the school break, Will decides to take the plunge and try out sex with Ander, willing or not. He’ll be gentle and kind and avoid breaking the peace between them. It can’t be any worse than fucking him with a vibrator in front of half the school, can it?

When Will tells Ander to undress and get ready for him, Ander looks at Will like he’s asked him to peel off his own skin or something. Will points out that’s he’s being unreasonable. He apologized for the vibrator incident, didn’t he? Well, he said sorry, at any rate. It isn’t like Ander can pretend he doesn’t know what bed slaves are for. Couldn’t he at least try to meet Will halfway?

The first time he does it, he does it on top of him, with Ander lying prone on the blue sheets of his bed.

The smooth expanse of Ander’s naked skin – sun-kissed and tan, save where the kilt has covered him – wakes a greed in Will that overpowers his lingering nervousness. He feels himself hardening even as his heart races and he’s suddenly hyper-aware of the cold sweat on his palms.

Ander’s own breath comes quicker as Will climbs up onto the bed and kneels between his legs. Will can feel each shallow breath as he rests a hand between Ander’s shoulders to steady himself. He gently explores the contours of the body beneath him, traces the outline of each shoulder blade and runs his fingers down Ander’s spine to the small of his back. He uses his free hand to slick himself up with lubricant. 

Ander gasps when Will presses against his ass. Will makes what he hopes is a soothing sound and Ander goes silent. He tries pushing in, then, and meets resistance. Ander’s entire body is clenched tightly, not fighting but otherwise uncooperative. Will rubs Ander’s back and makes a vexed sound. He pushes a little harder, then harder again. Slow and firm. Resistance finally gives way to pressure and Will slides into Ander’s body, clapping a hand over Ander’s mouth as he cries out in pain. It feels incredible, tight and warm and nothing at all like his own fist. Will lies still against Ander for a moment, on top of him and inside him, savoring that feeling.

He raises his torso up off of Ander’s prone back, then, and begins to thrust slowly, forward and down. Ander whimpers and scrabbles against the sheets beneath him. Will catches his hands and pins them to the mattress, twining his fingers through the spaces between Ander’s from behind and pressing down hard. He arches his back and snaps his hips forward once, hard and fast. Ander yells. Will does it again, slower. He frees his right hand to loop an arm beneath Ander, across the ridge of his collar bone, and draws him up against Will’s chest, forcing Ander to arch his back beneath him. He nuzzles the nape of Ander’s neck as he thrusts, kisses it, resists an urge to whine by biting down on the soft skin where neck becomes shoulder. Ander makes a small sound of pain, but doesn’t struggle.

It’s over much sooner than Will wants it to be. Heat pools in his groin, coils tighter with every thrust, and then it unfurls with his orgasm. Every muscle in Will’s body goes taut and then dissolves into water. 

Will bears Ander down to the mattress with him as his body goes slack. He lies plastered to Ander’s back, still half-hard inside him. He stays that way for a long time, listening to the mingled sounds of their breathing, mind drifting in a contented haze.

Afterward, they clean up together in the shower. Ander isn’t hard. Will is sleepy and doesn’t want to stop touching Ander, so he doesn’t. He takes Ander back to bed with him and pulls him close, their legs intertwined. Sun streams in through the window to make a pale halo of gold around Ander’s head. 

Will kisses the angry red mark where he bit Ander’s shoulder. “You are the best birthday present ever,” he whispers muzzily into his ear, and barely registers Ander going rigid in his arms as he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

On waking, all Will can think of is doing it again. So he does, and splits his vacation between sex and a fucked-out mindless stupor. He sleeps or dozes roughly fourteen hours a day and spends most of the remaining ten fucking Ander. He tries out every position he can invent or remember seeing in a porn film, against every flat surface whether horizontal or upright. He chains Ander up by his wrists and fucks him on tiptoe, takes him sailing and fucks him while the breeze and ocean spray lick their naked backs. He even makes Ander give him a couple of lackluster blowjobs, although he thinks he likes the sight of Ander on his knees with Will’s dick in his mouth better than any part of the disappointing physical experience. Twice, his parents have to send a servant for him when he forgets to show up for meals. He stumbles downstairs like a zombie and eats in a fog, barely noticing his parents’ poorly hidden amusement.

Then one day he wakes up and Ander is gone.

He checks the pool and the bathroom, then walks out onto the terrace, calling Ander’s name.

“He’s not here.” 

Will knows that voice, gravelly and deep.

“Grandpa?” He turns. The old man is sitting in a silk-draped wicker chair, dressed in Corporate black. He motions for Will to sit beside him.

“Where’s Ander?” Will asks.

“With his father.” No! The bottom drops out from under Will’s stomach.

“How?” Even if Ander’s father could be restored to the Council – even if he were somehow Archon again – Ander is property, now. Will’s property. He can’t be taken away unless the family chooses to let him go. 

“I freed him.”

Will looks up toward the city, to the Heights where the ancient estates of the Twelve are barely visible, like sky-gods robed in clouds, or petty tyrants looking down on the city from marble thrones. Ander is there, now. Will stares as if his gaze will pierce distance, stone, and cloud, if he only looks hard enough. 

“You gave him to me,” Will says reproachfully.

“And now I’m giving him back to his father,” his grandfather replies.

“He’s _mine_ ,” Will says. His voice surprises him by coming out as a growl. 

His grandfather smiles indulgently at Will’s anger, but he doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he stands and walks to the edge of the terrace, motioning for Will to follow. “Do you know this island is artificial?” The old man’s gesture takes in the lush foliage around them, the mansion rising out of the forest landscape, even the strip of white sand along the beach. “My mother raised it up from nothing, like our family. Nothing you see here was given. It had to be built.”

Will thinks he understands, but he doesn’t agree. “Calanthe is broken,” he tells his grandfather. “Even I can see that. Even if Ander’s father gets reinstated on the Council, we don’t have anything to fear from him.”

“Philocrates Calanthe has been reinstated. The charges against him have been dismissed, and the restitutions demanded by the Council have been paid.”

“What? How?” Will has heard the figures in the news feeds. The restitutions alone should have been enough to impoverish Ander’s family for generations.

“The same way Councilors Yarrow and Celandine were persuaded to bring charges against the Archon in the first place,” his grandfather says. “With Black money.”

Will’s universe is rapidly rearranging itself in his head, but his tongue seems to be running ahead of the rest of him. “And Calanthe knows.”

“He knows who saved him, and he knows who can ruin him just as easily,” the old man confirms. “Tell me, Will. Why do you think I gave Ander to you untrained, instead of sending him to the Corporation for conditioning?”

“Dad said he wouldn’t have been ready in time for my birthday.” But even as Will repeats his father’s answer, he can see the feebleness of the excuse. Why not delay the gift until Ander could be trained properly? Or give Will any other slave, already fully trained?

“I gave my son the name of a conqueror,” the old man says, “but naming a thing does not make it so. Your father is a good man, a kind man, and a weak man. But you and I, William…” he trails off, smiling now. “I gave Ander to you untrained because I wanted you to train him, and because I trusted you to do it thoroughly. The Corporation has studied psychological conditioning, Will. The habit of obedience is not a habit that easily fades.”

“You’re saying you planned this. That you meant to take Ander away all along.” Will still has difficulty keeping the resentment out of his voice.

“I’ll find you another toy, William.” His grandfather wraps a knuckle against the solid stone balustrade at the terrace’s edge. “To build something that lasts, you have to look beyond a single generation. Philocrates Calanthe knows in his head that the Black family owns him. Thanks to you, Anaxander knows it in his bones.”

* * *

Easy for his grandfather to say. Ander will be back in school tomorrow, looking for revenge, and he’s sure to pull out all the stops in order to make Will’s life a nightmare. He briefly considers transferring to one of the Guild schools. No, his parents will never allow it.

Sure enough, Ander corners Will in the hallway after third period. People have been acting weird around him all morning, like they’re not sure what to make of him. Does the dark celebrity of having owned the Archon’s son – of having fucked the Archon’s son in front of half the class – still cling to him? Or is he now radioactive, the kid Ander Calanthe is gunning for? Stand clear and watch out for shrapnel.

Flanked by Nico and a handful of other cronies, Ander looks like a bully straight out of a teen vid. True to the cliché, he shoves Will against a wall of lockers. Hard. “What’s the hurry, Black? Don’t you miss me?” His fist makes a hollow clang as he pounds it against the metal next to Will’s head.

Will suppresses an urge to flinch. Ander is all toughness and hard edges, but Will meets his eyes and sees something else beneath the bravado. Ander’s wide-collar shirt leaves his shoulder partially exposed, and Will reaches out to catch the edge of the fabric, pushing it back. There’s a pale strip of skin where the slave tattoo used to be. Will reaches out slowly and touches that tell-tale paleness. Cornflower blue eyes go very wide. Ander’s mouth is almost close enough to kiss. He shudders abruptly, then, and takes one uncertain step backward, then another as Will follows.

Will backs him up across the hall until their positions are reversed, with Ander’s back pressed against the far wall and Will’s arms caging him on either side. He leans in and Ander licks his lips nervously, then screws his eyes tightly shut and turns his face to the side. “I do miss you,” Will whispers into Ander’s ear, and feels him tremble.

Will steps back and shoots a mocking smile at Nico and his retinue, who look like they’re having trouble believing what they’ve just seen.

“See you around, Calanthe,” Will calls over his shoulder. He’s actually looking forward to it.


End file.
